Early on this hot, clear mornng with huge cumulous clouds, there is a tall bearded man walking with an oxygen cannister. I spy something large gleaming in the woods and find a Schwinn boy's bike circa 1980's, somewhat rusted, with tires torn off and inner tubes wrapped around the spokes.
At the Great Escape, where I take it to get tires, they like the old bike.
I name it "Mail".
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